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massively built of huge stone; and such
solid masonry, she felt assured, would
withstand the flood.
Taking in the situation of everything, at
a glance, Judith hurried below to the
“Madam’s” room; the St. Bernard keeping
close to her side. Searching she found a
small cot in the closet adjoining; together
with some bed clothing which she gather
ed up, and carried to the tower. She built
a fire in the empty grate, and then returned
and brought the medicines and a pitcher of
water. She staggered painfully, and
groped her way as one suddenly stricken
blind, when she went down the narrow
stairway leading to the tower, for her last
burden ; her face was like that of the dead,
and the sunken eyes, with their dark cir
cles beneath, indicated what she was suffer
ing—though apparently she did not real
ize it. As she stood by the bedside of
Mrs. Carson again, and looked down upon
her, she felt a little uncertain of her
strength. Judith Grayson was never rug
ged, and of late she was very far from
being either strong or well. With an in
ward prayer for help, she gently wrapped
a soft blanket about the sick woman, and,
taking a long breath, essayed to lift her in
her slender arms. It at first proved too
much for her, and, waiting a few moments,
she tried once more; this time her effort
was more effectual, and she staggered along
with her burden until she reached the foot
of the stairs—scarcely being able to keep
from falling. Mrs. Carson was much the
larger woman, and the strain upon Judith’s
strength and nerves was a fearful one.
Pausing at the stairway, she regained her
breath, and felt that the water was bathing
her feet; with another supreme effort she
gained the second stair, and succeeded in
closing the door after her. All this while
the widow Carson babbled incoherently
and struggled to free herself from Judith’s
restraining arms, making her task so much
the harder. Besting for an instant on the
stairway, she again to led up the steps,
and, completely exhausted, laid her charge
upon the cot. She sank helplessly to the
floor for a moment, but arose to her feet
almost instantly, carefully covered Mrs.
Carson, arranged her pillows more comfort
ably, and gave her a soothing draught.
She placed the lamp in a shaded position,
so that its light would not disturb the sick
woman, bade the St. Bernard lie down at
her feet, then fell back heavily into a large
easy chair which was standing by the side
of the cot. She sat quite still for a few
moments, with closed eyes and tightly
compressed lips, her slender white hands
clinched as if in mortal agony; and then
the pale lips parted and a stream of blood
gushed from them, and her head and
shoulders fell over on the foot of the bed.
The cold gray of early morning crept
through the tinted panes of the little oriole
window, at last, and it fell upon a rare pic
ture. The rain had ceased; the raging
waters were slowly subsiding. The "tiny
room in the tower looked very cosy and
comfortable, with its glowing coals in the
grate, its many home-like appointments,
and the.widow Carson fallen into a gentle
slumber. The huge St. Bernard lay crouch
ed at Judith’s feet, with his head resting on
his fore-paws and watching her intently.
Presently a slight and unusual sound at
tracted the animals attention—the drip,
drip, of Judith Grayson’s blood, as it ran
over the bedside. The dog sniffed loudly,
and sprang to bis feet. He went to the
pool, paused, looked up at Judith’s still
form, and then pulled at her dress. She
made no answer; he loosened his hold on
her garments, and walked around her
chair ; then, as if realizing it all, he gave a
prolonged howl, which startled the sick
woman from her light slumber; and then
he set up a most piteous whining.
It was broad day, and the sun shining,
when the man-servant and the physician
arrived, together with good Ruth Brown—
whose great anxiety would not let her re
main at her home. They were obliged to
come in a boat, and were very much
alarmed about the inmates at “Great Place.”
The water had entirely receded from the
house, but its ravages were every where
present. The continuous whining of the
dng attracted them to the tower. Mrs.
Carson was found to be very ill, but she
had recovered consciousness, and lay won
dering why she felt so badly, and what she
was doing in the tower, and mystified as
to who the woman was, who rested her
head upon the bed—as the widow thought
—asleep.
It was soon all made plain to her, and,
shocked, penitent for her harshness, and
truly grieved, she succumbed to uncon
sciousness again.
Judith was dead. Never very strong,
and of late less so than usual, the great
exposure, over-exertion, and terrille anx
iety, resulted in a wasting hemorrhage of
the lungs, which killed her.
Christmas day found the home of Ruth
Brown a scene of mourning instead of
festivity, for, in her small, plainly furnished
little parlor, right under the shadow of the
Christmas tree, (which Mrs. Brown would
not have taken away, for “Judith is a gift
to God,” she said) lay the fair woman—
more beautiful in death than life—with a
smile resting upon her delicate face.
What greater offering can one bring to
the Lord as a gift, than that of laying down
his life for a friend? How much more
this Christmas offering of Judith Grayson’s,
when she laid down her life for an enemy !
For Woman’s Work.
ANOTHER WORD ON AN OLD
SUBJECT.
My “Country-bred” article has called
forth “Town-bred,” giving the other side
of the question ; each claims that the ma
jority of greatness emanates from the re
spective points of view. On the one hand
is offered an array of illustrious personages
whose characters were grounded in the
ways of country life; on the other hand, a
similar enumeration is made in deiense of
the town-bred. Which is the rule and
which is the exception, is hard to deter
mine. My observation and research is in
favor of the former position, while the re
viewer of “Country-bred” makes a like
claim for the latter. Like every other
question, it has two distinct sides, and dif
ferent minds take different views; there is
no knowing the absolute truth.
However, I wish to say a word on the
differences in the two arguments presented.
It seems there is some dissimilarity in our
interpretations of the term “greatness.”
The writer of “Town-bred” applies it more
to statesmen and orators, while I recall
those who are great in literature—so each
from our point of view may justly claim a
majority. While there are exceptions, we
will admit that the former class of repre
sentative men are oftener the product of
town life than otherwise. The names cit
ed by “Town-bred” were for the most part
taken from Ancient history; we do
not forget that Cincinnatus was called from
following the plow to the consulship—and
other instances. Modern history is that
from which my conclusions have been
drawn, and it is of more importance to us
than accounts of powers and civilizations
that belong to other ages. It is true that
a statesman’s career must necessarily be at
the capitol, and metropolitan life tends to
develop the diplomat. But of those who
live illustrious in literature, it must be con
ceded that the majority are country-bred.
Perhaps there is a misunderstanding of
terms here. By country-bred I do not
mesin those who live exclusively in rural
districts, but those whose home associations
are there, and the stamina of whose char
acters gathered strength from the simplicity
and purity of country life. Nor does
country breeding exclude educational ad
vantages. Those boys who leave their
country homes to spend several years at
colleges and universities, are none the less
country-bred after they become scholarly.
Country people may be learned, traveled,
and cultured in every social grace.
“Town-bred” quotes Lord Macaulay,
though the supremacy of his authority may
be doubted. The assertion that “men who
distinguish themselves in their youth,
above contemporaries, almost always keep
to the end of their lives the start they have
gained,” has so many notable exceptions,
that it can be considered only as an indi
vidual opinion and not a rule. In many
instances men of genius, and those who
afterward won distinction, were considered
dullards in their youth. Some of the
greatest minds have been surprisingly
slow in development. College honors by
no means presage great achievements in
after life.
Sir Isaac Newton, the distinguished
mathematician and scientist, whose philoso
phy supplanted the systems of Aristotle
and Descartes, was born in a country home
and received the rudiments of his educa
tion at a country school.
Thomas Carlyle, whose transcendental
genius is not surpassed by any writer of
English prose, did not leave Craigenputtock,
his Scottish country home, until he was
thirty-nine years old, in the prime of his
intellectual strength, and after he had at
tained fame by his Sartor Resartus. Then
he went to London and wrote that grand
est of histories, The French Revolution.
The sterling integrity of his character, the
force and originality of his style, were
largely due to the untrammeled life of his
youth and the training of that good coun
try woman, Margaret Carlyle, his mother.
Fortunate’y, unlike his countryman,
Robert Burns, his life was not wrecked by
London society, which in that case ruined
a soul and a poet. Carlyle, in his hatred of
falsehood and triviality, could never amal
gamate with metropolitan life. He associ
ated, however, with the greatest of his con
temporaries, and this is his opinion : “It is
next to an impossibility that a London
born man should not be a stunted one;
most of them are dwarfed and dislocated
into mere imbecilities.”
There is this difference in the two au
thorities : Macaulay was a diplomatist, a
conventional, polished man of the world—
town-bred] Carlyle was an original genius,
who regarded only truth ; was utterly de
void of subterfuge or policy; his writings
are studied by millions for moral guidance;
he was indeed a teacher of mankind, the
greatest historian and philosopher—coun
try-bred.
Dickens, to my mind the greatest of all
writers of fiction, went in his youth to
London and became familiar with town
life in all its phases, and he makes it the
subject of the most pungent satires that
were ever written on its hollowness and cor
ruption—with its Merdleism, its Chancery
Court, its Marshalsea and all the para
phernalia of its civilization. And so did
Thacheray know London life, and satirize
it.
It would take volumes to make a just
division of the greatness belonging to town
and country. Both have had worthy sons',
but the “widely prevalent opinion” in favor
of the country, is sustained by modern his
tory. It is a rule with many exceptions—
so many indeed, that, with a cursory view
one is likely to fall into error. In all fair
ness of mind, I would mention two excep
tions: Dr. Johnson and Charles Lamb
alike declared that they could not live
without Fleet street —their very existence
depended on the din and rush of town.
These two lives, apparently so different,
were analagous in many respects; one
similarity was, that both suffered from con
stitutional mental and physical insanity.
Helen C. Molloy.
For Woman’s Work.
BEYOND.
See that no day passes in which you do not
make yourself a somewhat better creature, and
in order to do that tind out just what you are now.
—Ruskin.
In reading from the pages of well au
thenticated histories pertaining to Spanish
discoveries, we are informed that King
Ferdinand had inscribed on the coins of
Spain, the picture of the famous pillars of
Hercules. These pillars, as we all know,
were placed on both sides of the Strait of
Gibraltar, which was the extreme boundary
of the Spanish Empire, there being noth
ing beyond but the broad waste of an un
explored ocean. There was a scroll placed
over each pillar, and King Ferdinand had
written on them, “Ne Plus Ultra, —”
nothing beyond.
In October, 1492, Columbus, to the sur
prise of the then known world, discovered
this great country of America. When the
Spanish King was notified of the pleasing
intelligence that, far from his Spanish
domain, beyond the mighty waters that
rolled and thundered by Spain, there had
been found a large, rich and beautiful
country, he ordered the negative to be
struck out, and had the inscription, “Plus
Ultra,” or more beyond to be forever in
scribed on the roll above each pillar.
There is but a small circle of people living
in the light of this age of progress and in
telligence, who are willing to dispute upon
the immortality of the soul. That every
member of the human family is destined
to an endless existence is a fact that is
credited by all sensible and well informed
people.
We are all pilgrims, who have only a
temporary residence here; for each step
forward carries us in closer proximity to
eternal shores, and not knowing the dis
tance, there are hundreds and thousands
who suddenly reach the margin of the
fatal river, and thus are launched into the
boundless Beyond.
There are incidents constantly happen
ing through every one’s life-time, which,
at the time, no doubt appeared as very
light and casual affairs; but, as trival as the
little things which occur in one’s every-day
life may be considered, those same little
things do, in a very, marked degree, help to
shape one’s future destiny.
The waters which flow from the Gulf of
Mexico and empty into the Atlantic, are
always distinguishable from the waves of
the ocean by the peculiar hue so familiarly
known as the Gulf-stream, and just so do
the incidents, words, thoughts and deeds
of one’s life tend towards a coloring of
character that will never be lost to sight.
“More beyond” is inscribed upon every
soul, but what shall be beyond de
pends altogether upon our faithfulness
here. Thus, in an unconscious way, per
haps, we ere the architects of our destiny,
and, as we journey through life, in discharg
ing the duties which fall to our part, it cer
tainly becomes us to execute them with an
honest purpose and good will.
We should endeavor to live in such a
way that when we, too, shall reach the
border of eternal shores, we can feel as if
we were sailing out of rivers of pleasure
into the oceans of peace.
In whatever pursuits we engage we
should constantly bear in mind that, “it is
not all of life to live, nor all of death to
die.” Belle Boddie.
Nothing is beneath you if it is in the
direction of your life.— Emerson.
Qtttrm attit Jtiswsrs.
Let our readers a«k such information as they desires
Each will confer a*Javor by sending as many answer,
as possible, Replies to questions in this issue must
appear in our next x and should be received by the 20th
or the month. Give number of each Question you
answer.
QUERIES.
No. 119. What were some of the dis
tinctive features of the J t Ced*rs of Leba
non :” are any of these trees now existing ?
Myrtle.
No. 120. Is it best to grease the paper
for cake pans ? Mrs. R. L.
No. 121. Please give me a good recipe
for preparing codfish balls. Estelle S.
No. 122. Os whom was it said: “His
talent is but the picture of his character,
and his poems but the echo of his life ?”
Miss T.
No. 123. Please, through the medium
of your valuable paper, tell me the last
battle in which an English king fought in
person. Ralph H.
No. 124. Can the original of that pretty
little story, “Wolfgang Mozart,” published
in last issue of Woman’s Work, be pro
cured in America ? L. M. L.
No. 125. Who said, “Silence is the or
nament of the female sex?” Gertrude.
No. 126. Who is the author of “Furl
that Banner ?” Harold.
No. 127. Who wrote, “God could not be
everywhere, so he made mothers ?”
Alice L. B.
ANSWERS.
No. 108. Dryden is the author of the
verse, “Great wit to madness nearly is
allied.” L. M. L.
No. 109. “God made the country and
man made the town” is from “The Task,”
which Cowper began in 1783 and published
in 1785. The success of this poem was
very great, and the author then began to
be considered the greatost poet of his day
L. F.
No. 110. Try the following for your
broken china;—
Take a very thick solution of gum ara
bic, and stir into it plaster of Paris till it
becomes a viscous paste. Apply this with
a brush to cracked edges, and then fit them
together. In three days the article cannot
be broken in the same place.
BusV Housewife.
No. 111. q. v. is the abbreviation of
two Latin words, {quod vide) meaning
“which see.” L. M. L.
No. 112. Wordsworth, Coleridge and
Southey were regarded as the chief repre
sentatives of that school of poets known as
the “Lake Poets;” but Lamb, Lloyd and
Wilson were also included under the same
designation. The name of “Lake Poets”
was given them by the British critics about
the present century, because they formed
a brotherhood of poets who for some years
haunted about the Lakes of Cumberland,
and were erroneously thought to have
united on some settled theory or principals
of composition and style. L. M. L.
No. 113. Among the most fashionable
colors of this season are, maroon, castor,
beaver, plum and brown. M. E. G.
No. 114. The “Lake of the Thousand
Islands” which is an expansion of the
St. Lawrence, separates Upper Canada
from the State of New York. It is well
worthy of its name, being said to contain
seventeen hundred islets, —the largest
measuring ten miles by six. M. E. G.
•
No. 115. Chrysanthemums can be grown
from cuttings. They should be planted in
the spring,—about April. L. M. L.
No. 116. Boil one ounce of extract of
logwood and two ounces fustic in one quart
of water; brush the wood with this, then
go over with a weak solution of potash.
Mrs. H.
No. 117. You cannot, with propriety, ac
cept invitations that do not include your
hostess.
No. 118. Many questions of etiquette
admit of no choice between two forms; the
proper method being plain to everyone
who thinks of them. Others are subject
to individual opinions, and others still to
immediate surroundings. Your inquiry
belongs to the latter class. At times, it is
proper to take the last of an article at
table: at others it is not—depending largely
on where you are, how you feel, and how it
is offered.